The Flavia De Luce Series 1-4 (75 page)

There was a remote possibility that Aunt Felicity had scarfed them, but if she had, her outraged trumpetings would have made even Sabu’s elephant bolt for the hills.

Therefore, the chocolates must still be in Feely’s room. If only I could slip away, unnoticed in the semidarkness …

“Flavia,” Father said, with a wave towards the little screen, “I know how difficult this must be for you, in particular. You may be excused, if you wish.”

Salvation! Off to the poisoned chocolates!

But wait: If I slunk away now, what would Dieter think of me? As for the others, I didn’t give a rap … well, perhaps a little for the vicar. But to be thought of as weak in the eyes of a man who had actually been shot down in flames …

“Thank you, Father,” I said. “I think I shall manage to struggle through.”

I knew it was the kind of stiff-upper-lippish response he wanted, and I was right. Having made the required parental noises, he sank back into his chair with something like a sigh.

A froggish sound went up from the depths of the chair in the corner, and I knew instantly that it was Daffy.

The television cameras were cutting away to the interior of Broadcasting House, to a large studio piled to the rafters with flowers, and there among them lay Rupert—or at least his coffin: an ornate piece of furniture that mirrored the television lights and the nearby mourners in its highly polished surface, its silver-plated handles positively glistening in the gloom.

Now another camera was showing a little girl as she approached the bier … hesitantly … tentatively—pushed forward in a series of thrusts by a self-conscious mother. The child wiped away a tear before placing a wreath of wildflowers at the rail in front of the coffin.

The scene was cut to a close-up of a full-grown woman, weeping.

Next, a man in funereal black stepped forward. He plucked three roses from the wall of floral tributes, and presented each one delicately: one to the child, one to the mother, and the third to the weeping woman. Having done so, he pulled forth a large white handkerchief, turned away from the camera, and blew his nose with grief-stricken energy.

It was Mutt Wilmott! He was stage-managing the whole thing! Just as he’d said he would! Mutt Wilmott: to the eyes of the world, a broken man.

Even at a time of national mourning, Mutt was on the spot to provide the memorable moments—the unforgettable images required by death. I almost jumped to my feet and applauded. I knew that the people who witnessed these simple devotions, either in person or on the television screen, would go on talking about them until they sat toothless on a wooden bench, in a cottage dooryard, waiting for their hearts to stop beating.

“
Mutt Wilmott,”
the Dimbleby voice went on,
“producer of Rupert Porson’s
The Magic Kingdom.
We are told that he was devastated when news came of the puppeteer’s death; that he was rushed to hospital for treatment of cardiac palpitations, but in spite of it—and against his doctor’s orders—he insisted on being here today to pay tribute to his late colleague … although we are told on good authority that an ambulance is standing by at the ready, should it be needed.…
”

The view from a camera we had not seen before was now cut in. Shooting from a high angle, as if from a rotunda, the view came down and down into the studio, as it might be seen through the eyes of a descending angel, getting closer and closer to the coffin until, at its very foot, it came to rest upon a remarkable figure that could have been none other than Snoddy the Squirrel.

Mounted on a wooden post perhaps, the hand puppet, with its little leather ears, protruding teeth, and question mark of a bushy tail, had been carefully arranged to gaze sadly down upon the coffin of its master, its squirrel paws crossed reverently, its squirrel head bent in an attitude of humble prayer.

There were often times—and this was one of them—when, as if in the sudden, blinding flash of a news photographer’s camera—I saw it all. Death was no more than a simple masquerade—and so, moreover, was Life!—and both of them were artfully arranged by something or other: some backstage celestial Mutt Wilmott.

We were puppets, all of us, set in action upon the stage by God—or Fate—or Chemistry, call it what you will, where we would be pulled on like gloves upon the hands, and manipulated by the Rupert Porsons and Mutt Wilmotts of the world. Or the Ophelia and Daphne de Luces.

I wanted to let out a whoop!

How I wished that Nialla were here, so that I could share my discovery with her. After all, no one deserved it more. But by now, for all I knew, she was already steering the decrepit Austin van up the slopes of some Welsh mountain to some Welsh village, where, with the assistance of some hastily rustled-up, real-life Mother Goose, she would unpack her wooden crates and, later tonight, raise the curtain for the gawking villagers in some far-flung St. David’s Hall, on her own personal vision of
Jack and the Beanstalk
.

With Rupert gone, which of us now was the Galligantus? I wondered. Which of us was now the monster that would come tumbling unexpectedly out of the skies and into the lives of others?

“Heartfelt tributes continue to pour in from Land’s End to John O’Groats,”
the announcer was saying,
“and from abroad.”
He paused and gave out a little sigh, as if he had been overwhelmed by the moment.

“Here in London, and in spite of the downpour, the queue continues to grow, stretching as far as All Souls Church, and
beyond into Langham Place. From above the door of Broadcasting House, the statues of Prospero and Ariel look down upon the hordes of mourners, watching, as if they too share in the common grief
.

“Immediately following today’s ceremonies at Broadcasting House,”
he went on bravely,
“Rupert Porson’s coffin will be taken to Waterloo Station, and from there to its place of interment at Brookwood Cemetery, in Surrey.”

By now, even Feely could see that we had had enough.

“Enough of this maudlin trash!” she announced, striding across the room and flipping off the switch. The picture on the television tube retracted to a tiny point of light—and vanished.

“Throw open the curtains, Daffy,” she ordered, and Daffy sprang to her command. “This is so tiresome—all of it. Let’s have some light for a change.”

What she really wanted, of course, was to have a better squint at Dieter. Too vain to wear her spectacles, Feely had probably seen no more of Rupert’s funeral than a dishwater blur. And isn’t it pointless being admired at close range by an anxious swain if one is unable to see said swain’s rapture?

I couldn’t help but notice that Father seemed to have overlooked the way in which our first television viewing had been so abruptly terminated, and that he was already slipping away into his own private world.

Dogger and Mrs. Mullet went discreetly about their duties, leaving only Aunt Felicity to protest weakly.

“Really, Ophelia,” she huffed, “you are most ungrateful. I wanted to have a closer look at the coffin handles. My charlady’s son Arnold works as a set dresser at the BBC, and his services were especially requested. They gave him a guinea to ferret out some photogenic fittings.”

“Sorry, Aunt Felicity,” Feely said vaguely, “but funerals give me such awful gooseflesh—even on the television. I simply can’t bear to watch them.”

For a moment, a coolish silence hung in the air, indicating that Aunt Felicity was not so easily mollified.

“I know,” Feely added brightly. “Let me offer everyone a chocolate.”

And she went for an end-table drawer.

Visions of some Victorian hell flapped instantly into my mind: the caves, the flames, the burning pits, the lost souls queued up—much like those mourners outside Broadcasting House—all of them waiting to be flung by an avenging angel into the fire and molten brimstone.

Brimstone, after all, was sulfur (chemical symbol S), with whose dioxide I had stuffed the sweets. Bitten into, they would—well, that would hardly bear thinking about.

Feely was already walking towards the vicar, ripping the cellophane from the box of ancient chocolates Ned had left on the doorstep; the box with which I had so lovingly tampered.

“Vicar? Aunt Felicity?” she said, removing the lid and holding the box out at arm’s length. “Have a chocolate. The almond nougats are particularly interesting.”

I couldn’t let this happen, but what was I to do? It was obvious that Feely had taken my earlier, blurted warning as no more than a stupid bluff.

Now the vicar was reaching for a sweet, his fingers, like the planchette on a Ouija board, hovering above the chocolates, as if some unseen spirit might direct him to the tastiest confection.

“I have dibs on the almond nougats!” I shouted. “You promised, Feely!”

I lunged forward and snatched the chocolate from the vicar’s fingers, and at the same instant, contrived to stumble on the edge of the carpet, my flailing hands dashing the box from Feely’s hands.

“You beast!” Feely shouted. “You filthy little beast!”

It was just like old times!

Before she could recover her wits, I had trodden on the box, and in a clumsy, windmilling—but beautifully choreographed—attempt to regain my balance, had managed to grind the whole sticky mess into the Axminster carpet.

Dieter, I noticed, had a broad grin on his face, as if it were all jolly good fun. Feely saw it, too, and I could tell that she was torn between her duchess act and swatting my face.

Meanwhile, the hydrogen sulfide fumes, which my trampling of the chocolates had released, had begun their deadly work. The room was suddenly filled with the smell of rotten eggs—and what a stench! It smelled as if a sick brontosaurus had broken wind, and I remember wondering for an instant if the drawing room would ever be the same.

All of this happened in less time than it takes to tell, and my rapid-fire reflections were broken into by the sound of Father’s voice.

“Flavia,” he said, in that low, flat tone he uses to express fury, “go to your room. At once.” His finger trembled as he pointed.

There was no point in arguing. With shoulders hunched, as if walking in deep snow, I trudged towards the door.

Other than Father, everyone in the room was pretending that nothing had happened. Dieter was fiddling with his collar, Feely was rearranging her skirt as she perched beside him on the sofa, and Daffy was already reaching for a dog-eared copy of
King Solomon’s Mines
. Even Aunt Felicity was glaring fiercely at a loose thread on the sleeve of her tweed jacket, and the vicar, who had drifted across to the French doors, stood gazing out with pretended interest in the ornamental lake and the folly beyond.

Halfway across the room, I stopped and retraced my steps. I had almost forgotten something. Digging into my pocket, I pulled out the envelope of extra-perforated stamps Miss Cool had given me, and handed it to Father.

“These are for you. I hope you like them,” I said. Without looking at it, Father took the envelope from my hand, his quivering finger still pointing. I slunk across the room.

I paused at the door … and turned.

“If anyone wants me,” I said, “I shall be upstairs, weeping at the bottom of my closet.”

Again, for Shirley

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

What better place for a confession than at the end of a mystery novel? According to the great Eric Partridge, the words
knowledge
and
acknowledgment
come from the Middle English verb
knawlechen
, which means not only knowledge, but also
confession
or
admission
. So I’d better admit straightaway that I’m working with the assistance of a goodly number of partners in crime.

First and foremost among these conspirators are my editors: Bill Massey of Orion Books; Kate Miciak of the Random House Publishing Group; and Kristin Cochrane of Doubleday Canada. For their unwavering faith in Flavia from the very outset, I am forever in their debt. Bill, Kate, and Kristin have become family.

Again, my dear friends Dr. John and Janet Harland have contributed beyond measure. From brilliant ideas to animated discussions over happy meals, they have never failed to be the best of patient friends.

At Orion Books, in London, Natalie Braine, Helen Richardson, and Juliet Ewers are always marvels of friendly efficiency.

My literary agent, Denise Bukowski, has worked diligently to tell the world about Flavia. Also at the Bukowski Agency, Jericho Buendia, David Whiteside, and Susan Morris have freed me from worrying about the thousands of tiny details.

My deep indebtedness to Nicole, of Apple, whose magic wand turned what might have been a tragedy into a perfect triumph of online support. Thanks again, Nicole!

At Random House, in New York City, Kate Miciak, Nita Taublib, Loyale Coles, Randall Klein, Gina Wachtel, Theresa Zoro, Gina Centrello, and Alison Masciovecchio provided a touching welcome that I will never forget. And having Susan Corcoran as one’s publicist is every author’s dream. And thanks to my copy editor, Connie Munro.

Thanks also to the American Booksellers Association for inviting me to their Indie Lunch at Book Expo America. Happily, I found myself seated at a table with Stanley Hadsell, of Market Block Books in Troy, New York, who epitomizes independent bookselling. We could have talked all night.

To Ann Kingman and Michael Kindness of “Books on the Nightstand,” for their early and abiding faith. When I ran into Michael unexpectedly at BEA, I found out that in spite of living in the smallest town in the smallest county in the smallest state, he’s one of Flavia’s biggest fans.

In Houston, David Thompson and McKenna Jordan, Brenda Jordan, Michelle McNamara, and Kathryn Priest of Murder By the Book, made me understand instantly why so many people love Texas so much. Now I do, too.

Sarah Borders and Jennifer Schwartz of the Houston Public Library did double duty in arranging a question-and-answer session.

Special thanks to Jonathan Topper of Topper Stamps and Postal History in Houston, who took the time to spice up the evening with a fascinating display of Penny Blacks.